


With Warm Regards

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dorian-centric, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: Dorian and the Inquisitor don't always see eye to eye, and so the night comes when the circle closes.





	

There is less to pack than Dorian originally thought. It's not surprising, when he thinks about it – he ran from Tevinter with nothing but a birthright to his name and a staff to his hand – so that he should expect to leave with something more now is, quite frankly, ridiculous, and he acknowledges that.

It's simply that Skyhold has created an illusion of _having._ During his months with the Inquisition Dorian has got accustomed to having a great many things, starting with general necessities – a roof above his head; regular meals, always hot if somewhat bland; a safe place from which to give his share of effort against Corypheus – and ending with more personal things. The little nook of a library, generally referred to as _Dorian's_ between the residents of Skyhold, up until now. All its books, a limited selection as there may be. Even an _oud_ , something that Dorian would not have expected to find in an ancient elven fortress in the middle of Frostback Mountains, but that was there nonetheless to his small, personal pleasure.

Even companionship. Well. It wouldn't do to exaggerate, but there is that drawing of a butt – presumably his, since it's filled with arrows and is accompanied by chicken scratch declaring _Mr no fancy breeches_. Dorian had hung it on his wall upon finding it in his room some weeks prior. The next day he had found some cookies on his bed.

But now that it has come to leaving, to the Inquisitor kicking him out, the illusion finally shatters. Dorian packs his spare set of robes, an odd book he's purchased himself, his staff, the portrait of the butt. Nothing else was his to begin with.

It's just as fine; travelling alone, on foot, a bigger pack would merely be an inconvenience. At least now, unlike when he fled Tevinter, he knows what to expect from the life on the road. He is prepared. Also, stronger. So what would this be that he hasn't done before? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Isn't it what he has always done, throughout his entire life? Walking away. He walked away from Rilienus. Then, Alexius. He ran from his father, and his homeland, and now he'll walk away from the Inquisition. What a fitting end. A rather funny joke, in fact: to run from one's homeland to make a difference, to end up returning with less than one left with. Isn't that some sort of didactic story, something about a father and a wayward son? Dorian can't care to remember.

It shouldn't be overly dramatic. Apparently there simply is a limit to how many times he can walk away from his life, and now he's met that limit, and ends up right in the starting point. Just as well; if he cannot make a difference in the South, he will make a difference in the Imperium. At least there when he'll be scoffed at it won't be because he's _Tevinter._

The pack sits ready on the bed. Has sat for quite a while, in fact, and Dorian has simply delayed the final step of closing the door behind him. He grabs his pack and briskly walks across the room, but halts at the door, hand on the knob.

He ought to say goodbyes, ought he not?

In truth, he's not certain there are many people whom he can presume to _expect_ his goodbyes. Perhaps if he passed them in daylight, but to particularly be woken up specifically for that in the dark of the night? Still, he ought to let at least someone know directly from him – the rest will no doubt hear the news from the Inquisitor himself.

In the end, Dorian settles for two notes. The first one he takes to the garden, where the chessboard still stands, the game unfinished. A few sleepless chantry sisters give him a disinterested glance, but nothing more, and so Dorian may write his regrets to Cullen for leaving their game unfinished entirely undisturbed. Then, he heads for the tavern.

The Herald's Rest, too, is empty – the night is late enough to send even the most enthusiastic ravers to their quarters or wherever it is they go after Cabot kicks them out. It's odd to hear the tavern so silent – a little too much like another tavern not so long ago – and Dorian minds his steps as he climbs up the stairway. What delicious irony: to see the Inquisitor drive away his father, only to be kicked out in a similar manner barely three months later. Oh, how his father must smile when he hears of it. If he hears of it.

Dorian pulls the slightly crumbled note from his pack, hesitates, and finally scribbles the most suitable farewells he can think of below the sketched butt. _Thank you for the arrows, I shall deliver them_ _to_ _the magisters for you._ _Do make sure the world gets saved._ He slips the note through the door gap, and then he's run out of excuses to linger. Cullen, Sera, and...

And that's all.

One drunken night hardly accounts for anything significant. To imagine it does would be terribly presumptuous of him, laying expectations on someone who probably doesn't even understand the concept. If Dorian has let himself blur the line between _casual_ and _attachment_ , the mistake is his alone, and he shan't burden anyone else with it.

Besides, sneaking out in the dark is what Dorian has always done. Why would this be of any difference?

X


End file.
